Truth be told, I was once denied from Brown.
As a high school senior, I had an 1130 on my SAT and a transcript marred by Bs. Objectively speaking, by these metrics, I did not belong at Brown.
But the stakes were high – I knew what a Brown education would mean and most of all, I knew what it would mean for my family. And so I set out over two years to make a better case for my admission.
Growing up, I spent a lot of time learning how to make a good case. I was raised in the pews of nearby courtrooms, where I listened to my Dad, a criminal defense attorney, make a case for his clients — not necessarily for their innocence, but for their humanity. He knew that their past did not define their future; there were simply too many other moments in between.
When I was 14, he stopped making cases for his clients and started mounting a case against his newly diagnosed cancer. But stage IV gastric cancer had already made up its mind. Nine months later, about a mile away from the Pembroke side of campus, he would pass away in the care of oncologists and palliative care doctors — all of whom were on the Brown faculty.
For this reason and many more, Brown is where I wanted to spend the next four years. But at first, I was rejected. I just needed to build a better case. After two years, an SAT score 300 points higher, an extra year of high school and some stroke of a miracle, I was accepted. I had won the case and gotten into Brown. But unbeknownst to me at the time, the biggest of all was still ahead. I would need to make a case to myself that I belonged here.
I was off to a bad start, though. I got the third-lowest score in the class on my first exam. I was rejected from every club that I applied to. I learned that my intended major, public policy, would soon be dissolved. And as if that all was not enough, the varsity team that brought me to Brown was soon cut. By the end of my first year, there was barely anything left for me. I felt, viscerally, like nothing but an impostor on this campus.
But, as I learned from my Dad, one’s past does not have to define their future. And so I tried, again and again, to find my place here — and most importantly, to feel like I had a place here.
I began by circling back to where it all began: Rhode Island Hospital. For several hours a week, I shadowed and learned from the same faculty members who cared for my Dad. My past was slowly being connected to my present and in short order, these experiences ignited the way for some small and immeasurable wins. Eventually, the small wins added up to bigger ones. Recently, the biggest win happened when I was named a Churchill Scholar, which has given me the extraordinary gift of a graduate degree at the University of Cambridge next year.
I hope my story inspires a bit of a collective reckoning. As much as this experience is mine, I know that so many of you also spend the majority of your time feeling like an outsider. Impostor syndrome is endemic on this campus. All of you, in some form or another, have questioned whether or not Brown made a mistake, if you could pass that class or whether you could make it here today. And yet we have barely talked about it. But how can we walk through those gates, go forth and “commence” into the next chapter without reconciling this important piece of our experience? After all, how do we know when we begin to belong?
When I received an email about winning the Churchill scholarship, it was somewhat ambiguous. On a later Zoom call, I asked “At what moment will I know if I’ve won?” They responded, “at this moment.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. For once, my past did not define my future.
At that moment, I felt vindicated. Like I had finally earned my place at Brown. But in retrospect, no award or honor could ever have that power. It had to be all of the moments in between.
When a faculty member answered my email about wanting to work with her, igniting a world of opportunity and a mentor-mentee relationship that is stronger than ever today, despite it now spanning across state lines.
When, after several of my close friends graduated, a group of incredibly thoughtful and funny sophomore boys took me in as their friend.
When a professor that I had as a first-year spent three consecutive hours with me (on Halloween night) preparing me for one of the most important interviews of my life, despite us being disconnected for over three years.
And so many more.
I am certain that all of us belong here, in this moment of graduation, but we have also belonged in the moments in between. The Class of 2024 will graduate as one of the toughest and most resilient classes in Brown’s 259-year history. We began this journey, four years ago, in the heart of a pandemic. We have watched the world around us, in nearly every aspect, grow increasingly polarized and hateful. And today, we continue to grapple with a brutal war that has, at times, divided our campus and divided our world. When reflecting on the events of the past four years, it is hard to see anything beyond these realities – all of which have made it harder to feel like we belong not only here, but everywhere.
And yet, we transcended these seemingly impossible moments. Somehow, we have found a way for heartbreak and joy to coexist. As we go forward, I am convinced that the only prescription for finding our way through the challenges that await us on the other side of the gates is to continue to do just that.
And if all else fails, remember the words of 1984 honorary degree recipient, Maya Angelou: “Have enough courage to trust love one more time and always one more time.”
I am so proud to walk through those gates and to be with you all today as a member of this extraordinary class.
We did it. And in case no one has told you yet — you belong here.
Maddie McCarthy is a graduating senior in Brown's class of 2024.
